


Loss of Power

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:38:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been methodically dismantling Moriarty's web and has come to a quartermaster of MI6 to obtain the next piece of the puzzle.</p><p>He's prepared to do anything to get what he needs -- even kill if necessary.</p><p>Fortunately Q manages to change his mind... by candlelight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss of Power

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyElayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyElayne/gifts).



It took him less than a week to track him and he knew he had to be careful. This fellow was MI6, despite appearances, but if he could get a hold of whatever information Mycroft was unwittingly keeping from him, he would be able to trace the remainder of Moriarty’s connections and destroy the web forever. The problem was: how does one obtain information from a higher-up of MI6 without raising suspicion? He needed more data.

The rain fell steadily as he watched his quarry through the window from an empty flat across the street. Chances are Mycroft already knew he was in the city again and had circled the wagons, but even he didn’t think that his brother would have thought of the quartermaster of MI6. He was in a perfect position to have access to the information he needed and even though he didn’t hold with the idea of trying to kill him to get it, he wouldn’t rule it out. Mycroft would say that he was obsessed. Perhaps his brother had a point. But until the web were dismantled and destroyed, he could not rest.

The last link lay with the man across the street and in the second-storey flat. A mop of black hair was visible through the rain-streaked pane as the man bent over the computer. Sherlock had to admire his work ethic; it rivaled his own. But how does one gain access to a stranger’s flat without raising suspicion?

A split second of inspiration came in the form of a power outage that plunged the surrounding homes into darkness. Only the glow from the quartermaster’s computer stayed alight. He used a backup battery. Of course he did. Sherlock shook his head; so much for trying to impersonate an electrician.

Sherlock sat back onto one of the packing crates that were scattered about the deserted flat. The previous owner had died and it was only a matter of picking the lock to gain access. Holmes hoped to do it to the quartermaster’s flat and, even though the front door would be a toddle, the door to his flat itself would not prove easy to access. If the boy was as on the ball as Sherlock suspected he was, he also wouldn’t be able to approach the man’s door without being seen by hidden cameras.

Sherlock noticed the quartermaster yawn and stretch and look about. He tried a wall switch behind him and found that it didn’t work. Sherlock smirked at the look of consternation on his face. Sherlock could relate to things like this; if he were ever stuck in his mind palace for long, the day would sometimes pass him by and little inconveniences like the daylight being gone and the lights being off would come as a bit of annoyance. To awaken from his reveries to a power outage would cause Sherlock to become quite put out. They had more in common than Sherlock thought.

The quartermaster’s face, illumined by the glow of his computer, disappeared for a moment and then re-appeared holding a fat white candle. The rain was letting up, but the power stayed off and Sherlock followed the light of the candle to another window and then another. This one was smaller than the others, but allowed an angled view enough for Sherlock to make out a bathroom. He watched the quartermaster urinate and then noticed that he stripped off his jumper in one movement. For a moment, Sherlock was reminded of John and he shook away the cruel stab of the memory and the loneliness that followed, re-focusing on his quarry. He watched as the man disrobed and took note of the pale skin in the candlelight. He could just see the spray from the shower and his hair and back as he ducked under the stream.

The quartermaster washed his body methodically, slowly, as though it were a ritual of relaxation rather than a perfunctory task. Sherlock couldn’t help but become mesmerized. Soapy trails parted and converged around tight whipcord muscles. Raven black hair took on a wet sheen as he rinsed off. Sherlock brought the binoculars up to his eyes and watched as rivulets of water bumped over prominent nipples when the man turned to face him. He followed the swan-like neck up and watched the head tilt back, eyes closed, for one last rinse of the hair Sherlock suddenly wanted to touch.

Heat spread in Sherlock’s belly. That was unexpected. He hesitated before placing the binoculars to his eyes again. The quartermaster stood still under the water, the spray hitting the back of his shoulders; he seemed lost in thought. He ran a hand slowly along his chest, fingertips over his collarbone, down his sternum and over to his nipple. The fingertips lingered there and Sherlock realized what he was watching.

The quartermaster’s head tilted back again, his eyes closed and his mouth opened. Sherlock couldn’t see his other hand, but he could guess what was happening. He took a stuttered breath as he felt the heat building within himself. Inconvenient, he thought. Still… In the back of his mind he reviewed the pros and cons of satisfying himself. On the one hand (he chuckled at the pun), he should be professional. On the other hand, he really didn’t have anything better to do and there was something about the young man that was downright - innocent, frail, vulnerable. As he watched, the steam rose and the hand Sherlock couldn’t see was working hard, causing him to breathe so hard as to cause his body to undulate as he stood there in the wet heat.

Sherlock put fingertips to his clothed cock. It was half hard. Sherlock let out a ragged breath as he continued to watch the beautiful boy across the street by the flickering candlelight. With one hand, he unbuckled his belt and opened the flies of his trousers, dexterous fingers working quickly to extricate his member from the cloth. He leaned against the window jamb, canting his hips and stroking his dick lightly.

“Gently, boy,” whispered Sherlock. He cursed himself for not finding out the quartermaster’s name, but everything was so hush-hush at MI6, it was rather ridiculous. There was no way to find out without alerting Mycroft’s watchdogs. That would never do. He couldn’t stand the thought of his brother being aware of his presence in London and what he might be up to. He shoved the thought of his brother’s smirk aside and…

His breath caught when he saw what the quartermaster was up to. For a split second, Sherlock thought he might have missed the man’s orgasm because his face was flushed (of course that could have been the heat from the water, but that was only a contributory factor as his face was not directly underneath the spray) and his breathing was rapid (which was the source of actual concern), but he soon realized that the man kept gazing down at his penis with his brow furrowed in stress and frustration. He slowly raised his hands to his hair and one nipple and Sherlock observed that he was thrusting his hips gently. Sherlock smiled as his suspicions were confirmed by the evidence before him: the quartermaster was taking himself to the brink of orgasm and then backing away from the edge.

Sherlock waited for what he knew would come and in a few minutes he was rewarded: he slowly reached back down and pulled himself to the brink again. It was slow and languorous and Sherlock copied what he saw, pumping a fist slowly and firmly, playing with his balls and teasing the frenulum in quick instances. Soon he too felt his balls tighten and as he saw that water-slick beautiful boy release himself again to bring himself back down, Sherlock let go of himself with a whimper.

In a way, Sherlock wished he were in the shower with him. He needed to know who the man was thinking of, who he was imagining there in the candlelight. Sherlock wanted to be that man. He wanted to fill the boy’s senses with his taste, his touch, the sound of his voice. He wanted to know what the man sounded like: did he whimper as well when he deprived himself of his own touch? If so, just how did his breath hitch? What did he taste like under the spray?

Sherlock took himself in hand again as he saw the quartermaster do the same. “More?” Sherlock asked him softly. “Very well. But will you cum this time, boy?”

The man leaned against the wall of the shower with one arm as his other arm pumped fiercely against his side. Sherlock could only imagine the rapidity of the foreskin as it slipped over what he imagined to be a ruby red head again and again. Sherlock stuttered out a muffled cry as he came when he saw the boy tilt back his head and arch his back, his climax practically causing him to fall.

Sherlock leaned heavily against the wall as he caught his breath. For a dizzying moment, the room tilted slightly and he closed his eyes. If Sherlock was honest, that was one of the best orgasms he had ever had. He swallowed and gazed through his lens again toward the boy in the shower.

He was pressed up against the tiled wall, one cheek against the coolness he no doubt found there and Sherlock could see his well-fucked expression as clear as day. Sherlock didn’t want his heart to get mixed up with this person. He needed separation in order to complete his mission. There were things to take care of, things he needed to focus on, he couldn’t afford to be compromised. But this quartermaster – this boy – had brought him such pleasure… It was… distracting.

Sherlock watched as the man extricated himself from the shower and moved with the candlelight to his bed and to sleep. After a moment, the candle was blown out and moonlight took over. As he watched his breath calm and his body relax, Sherlock began to consider other ways of obtaining the information he needed. Surely there were other routes to infiltrate. He had been working for eighteen months on his step-by-step deconstruction of Moriarty’s criminal empire, what was another eighteen months? It’s a good thing John was a steadfast friend. He’d need to be to endure what Sherlock needed to do and accept his return.

He silently thanked the stranger sleeping peacefully across the street and made his way into the darkened streets of London with renewed purpose and the energy that only a new challenge could awaken in him.


End file.
